


faithless, still reaching

by youcouldmakealife



Series: no expectation of returns [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Stephen gets within reaching distance Gabe reels him in, more gentle than he usually would, more than aware of the sling, a one-armed hug, enough distance between their bodies that Gabe doesn’t bump him. It’s weird, being aware of space with Stephen, it’s been irrelevant for as long as he’s known him, and as if in silent protest, Stephen pulls him in tighter, hair brushing Gabe’s cheek.</p>
<p>“Need a haircut, Steve,” Gabe says. “You look like a hippy.”</p>
<p>“Don’t call me Steve,” Stephen mumbles, mostly into Gabe’s neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	faithless, still reaching

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr!](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Warnings at the end.

Gabe heads to the airport after finding some fresh sheets to put on the bed in the spare room, hitting up the grocery store for mostly staples and a few indulgences, calling Anouk to tell her that her son’s run off again. He would have preferred to call his mom and let her be the bearer of bad news, but that wouldn’t be fair. About as unfair as Stephen leaving it to Gabe, though Gabe doesn’t really mind, not when it means Stephen’s actually got the drive to do something. The call is tense, but could have been worse; he suspects it’s as much a relief for Anouk as it is for him; her updates on Stephen mostly stalled, since he’d close himself up in his room and stay there, quiet, whenever he could. She’d complained if he didn’t have doctor’s appointments and a standing dinner request, didn’t help his sisters with their math homework, it’d be like he wasn’t home at all.

He’s there early, but it’s better than waiting at home, better than keeping Stephen waiting. Heads over to Departures with plenty of time to kill, buys himself a smoothie, wanders, head down, and gets stopped by a couple of people, signs a few sheets of paper, a couple tickets, takes a few pictures, glad he has a sharpie handy when a seven year old shyly asks him to sign her Konstantinovich jersey. Konstantinovich hasn’t played since Gabe was a kid, let alone the girl, Ming, who answers all his questions as shyly as her request was, her mom looking on, gently nudging her when she ducks her head. “You like Konstantinovich?” Gabe asks.

“I was there when they retired his number,” she tells him solemnly.

“Me too,” Gabe says, just as solemn, and she giggles. 

“You were on the _ice_ ,” she says, shyness momentarily forgotten, and she’s smiling when Gabe gets down on a knee so her mom can take a picture.

By the time he gets back to Arrivals, Stephen’s flight’s in, and he buys a three dollar bottle of water, signs a few more autographs, before Stephen comes out, a rolling suitcase behind him, hauled with his good arm, while he’s got a sling pinning his arm to his chest. He looks washed out, always goes sort of translucent when winter comes, so pale he practically becomes one with the ice, but when he gets closer Gabe can see the bags under his eyes, the thin line of his mouth, pained. Wonders if he took painkillers or put them off for the flight. 

Once Stephen gets within reaching distance Gabe reels him in, more gentle than he usually would, more than aware of the sling, a one-armed hug, enough distance between their bodies that Gabe doesn’t bump him. It’s weird, being aware of space with Stephen, it’s been irrelevant for as long as he’s known him, and as if in silent protest, Stephen pulls him in tighter, hair brushing Gabe’s cheek.

“Need a haircut, Steve,” Gabe says. “You look like a hippy.”

“Don’t call me Steve,” Stephen mumbles, mostly into Gabe’s neck.

Once they pull back, there are a couple curious faces that Gabe ignores, people who’ve already asked for, and gotten, Gabe’s autograph, people who, no doubt, know exactly who Stephen is, exactly what’s happened to him. Gabe has no problem with them, but there’s no way in hell he’s making Stephen stick around the terminal and try and fail to sign shit with his left hand, so he ushers him through, makes sure to avoid eye-contact with anyone who seems too interested, gets him into the first cab available.

When the cabbie pops the trunk Stephen hauls his suitcase, one-handed, into the trunk, and it’s all Gabe can do not to stop him, even though he knows Stephen can easily take the weight one handed, that it can’t be more than 50 pounds. He stops himself, though Stephen must see it, his half-lunge to take the suitcase from his hands, and Gabe feels guilty for it, even though he couldn’t help it, even if it was just reflex.

It’s awkward, the first couple minutes, after Gabe gives his address and Stephen looks out the window like there’s anything worth seeing. “What’d my mom say?” Stephen asks finally.

“That you’re a little shit,” Gabe says. She may not have, but that was definitely what she meant. “That if you’re here for awhile you need to find a doctor.”

It’s reaching, checking, he knows it’s obvious, he knows he’s basically just flat out asked how long Stephen plans on staying, though it’s not like he’d mind if it was awhile, not like he’d mind if it was for good, Gabe’s place more than big enough for the both of them, Gabe missing Stephen like a missing limb when he’s not around. Maybe that’s a bad analogy. Gabe’s been biting his tongue before he talks to Stephen for so long now that he can almost forget how strange that is.

Stephen hums, non-committal. When they get to Gabe’s place, Gabe lets him take the suitcase, even though he doesn’t want to, follows Stephen up the stairs to the spare room, well aware he’s hovering, but not really able to avoid it.

“You need anything?” Gabe asks, before he can stop himself.

“Dude,” Stephen says, and Gabe gives him an apologetic look, but doesn’t take it back.

“I dunno,” Stephen says. “Dinner?” 

It’s early afternoon, but it’s early evening, Eastern time, and there’s no way Stephen would have willingly touched anything on the plane.

“Sushi?” Gabe asks, and Stephen shrugs, nods.

Gabe leaves him to it, orders, doubles his usual order and then gets the fatty tuna, figures he’ll be able to sneak at least one out from under Stephen’s chopsticks, then realises Stephen doesn’t have use of his right and immediately feels shitty. This is harder than it should be, everything he does he bobbles, forgetting things, remembering things at the wrong time.

He wants to cancel the order, wants to get something easy, pizza or something, but there’s no way Stephen won’t know why, so he lets it stand, texts Anouk and his mom to let them know Stephen’s landed, because Stephen will be avoiding contact with his mom like the plague, wants to wander into Stephen’s room and hover some more, but quells the urge, goes to sack out in front of the TV and wait for him to come down.

Stephen comes down after the sushi arrives, changed into sweats and an old London Knights shirt Gabe thought he had lost, but apparently had just been stolen, his hair damp and tucked behind his ears. He’s gotten rid of the sling, and Gabe’s eyes keep going to his splint, knows beneath it he’s got the stitches, the pins, the screws. It’s not a plaster cast, and with anyone else that’d be encouraging, but Gabe knows it’s because more likely than not, they’re going to have to operate again once some of the healing’s happened, knows they’re doing it in piecemeal, right now, not sure how he’s going to heal until it starts happening. His hand is dead-weight, and if that doesn’t change, they’re talking tendon transfer surgery, which Gabe looked up after Johan mentioned it, and read up on until he felt vaguely nauseous.

Stephen completely eschews the chopsticks, goes in with his left hand, like he did when they were teenagers, a fork and hand tandem, before Gabe had insisted that if he wasn’t going to learn to eat with chopsticks, Gabe wasn’t going to eat out with him anymore, because he was embarrassing. Gabe doesn’t say anything this time, and it doesn’t slow Stephen down any; instead of chopping Gabe’s hand with chopsticks when he goes for the fatty tuna, he just smacks him, unrepentantly eating all of them while Gabe sulks.

“You got a game tomorrow, right?” Stephen asks, while Gabe’s still sulking, nudging him with his elbow. 

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “Isles.”

Stephen makes a face at him, and Gabe laughs. Gabe doesn’t ask if he wants to go, figures he’d say if he did. He’s been watching shit at home, Gabe knows he has, keeping up with the Pens, the Canucks too, even if just for chirping purposes, but it’s different, being in an arena, whether it’s close enough to smell the ice or in a box too far from the action. Had to do it when the Knights were vying for the Memorial, part of Stephen’s cheering section, and it’d felt wrong the whole time, not being down there.

Stephen leans his head back against the couch, closes his eyes, and Gabe takes the moment to look at him, properly look at him. His stubble comes in so light it’s almost invisible, but he’s missed a spot on his jaw, has a nick on his chin. He’s got the bags under his eyes, under the sweep of his eyelashes, almost invisible as well, and his eyelids look bruised purple. His mouth is tight enough that Gabe knows he’s in pain, as well as he knows Stephen wouldn’t appreciate him asking if he needs to take a pill. Gabe hauls him in against his chest, can smell the fruity shampoo his mom left when his parents stayed in the spare room, the deodorant Stephen’s been wearing since they were twelve, feels Stephen’s hair, still slightly damp, under his chin.

“I fucking hate this,” Stephen says, so low Gabe almost misses it, said more into Gabe’s armpit than anything, and Gabe closes his eyes then too.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and it's the truth, and it isn’t nearly enough.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warning** : Ongoing portrayal of serious, career-ending injury. I'm doing my best to do my due diligence re: medical accuracy, but there may be mistakes.


End file.
